The mud sucked at Riven's boots with greedy lips as he staggered upright. Each breath tasted of copper and rot. His ribs ached from the fall, muscles shrieking with every tiny movement. Rain hammered through the twisted canopy overhead, dripping in oily rivulets from fungal blooms that pulsed faintly, as if savoring the downpour.
He turned in a slow circle, blinking against the gloom. The trees here were wrong. Their trunks gnarled in corkscrews, bark wet with something that looked too much like blood. Tangled roots broke through the ground like broken ribs. Between them, patches of mushrooms exhaled faint blue glows, casting sickly halos on the mud.
Somewhere deeper in the Gutter, that monstrous shift came again. A groaning rumble, almost felt more in his bones than heard, like the earth's marrow was rolling over in restless sleep. Riven clenched his jaw, fists trembling. Whatever dwelt here was no mere beast.
---
He began to walk. There was no plan — just move, stay warm, find shelter before exhaustion dropped him for good. He tripped over roots slick with slime, catching himself on a tree that oozed yellow sap. Thorny vines snagged his shirt, tearing it in jagged streaks. Once, he slipped and fell face-first into a shallow hollow, coming up spitting mud and dead insects.
Hours might've passed. Or minutes. The Gutter had no rules for time. Sometimes the rain seemed to freeze in the air for a heartbeat, droplets hanging like tiny glass beads before falling all at once. Sometimes his breath fogged despite the heat, as if he'd stepped through an unseen door into winter.
Then he saw the bodies.
Not fresh. Not all in one place. But here and there, half-buried by roots, hunched against trunks, skulls gaping under ragged skin. Many still wore rusted shackles. Some held scraps of old banners, the colors unrecognizable. One skeleton's jaw still worked slightly, as if whispering a secret only worms could hear.
Riven forced himself to look away. Each corpse was a promise — that the Gutter didn't simply kill. It consumed.
---
A sudden sharp sound cracked through the gloom. Not thunder. Not stone shifting.
Laughter.
High, wild, scraping through the trees like broken glass. Riven froze. Ahead, shapes darted between the trunks, lanky figures hunched under patchwork cloaks. He ducked behind a mossy boulder, heart punching against his ribs. Peering around the edge, he saw them clearly — at least five. Thin arms, long knives flashing. Their skin was pale as grubs, eyes milky, hair in filthy ropes.
Scavengers. The Gutter's children. Born here, maybe, or twisted by it. He'd heard whispers back in Valeforge of the gutterborn who hunted exiles for meat and trophies.
One of them suddenly sniffed the air, head jerking in his direction. A grin split its raw lips, teeth filed into points. It let out a barking giggle and skittered toward him on hands and feet. The others followed, blades scraping bark as they closed in.
---
Panic surged up Riven's throat. He bolted, feet splashing through puddles, ducking under low branches that clawed at his shoulders. The scavengers hooted behind him, voices rising in gleeful howls. They were faster. Lighter. He could hear them closing.
A stone tangled in roots caught his boot. He pitched forward, skidding across mud and shredded leaves. Before he could scramble up, cold fingers seized his ankle. Riven twisted, kicking wildly, heel cracking against a jaw. The creature shrieked, blood and broken teeth spraying his leg.
Then another lunged from the side, knife slashing. White heat tore across his thigh. Riven roared, punching it in the throat. It fell back, gagging. But two more were already there. One stabbed for his gut — he caught its wrist, muscles burning, then slammed its head into a tree until the skull caved.
Still they kept coming. Nails dug into his shoulders. Rotten breath flooded his nose. A blade pressed against his neck.
---
A sudden thunk split the air. The pressure on his shoulders vanished. Something warm splattered his cheek. Riven blinked through the rain — the scavenger's head was gone, neck pumping dark gore. It collapsed twitching at his feet.
Shouts rang out. Figures burst from the trees, not pale and lean but wrapped in scraps of boiled leather, faces streaked with ash and cloth. Crossbows thudded. More scavengers dropped, thrashing in the mud.
A hand grabbed Riven's collar and hauled him upright. A woman's face loomed close — dark paint smeared under green eyes, hair hacked short, a cruel scar tugging one lip.
"Move if you want to live," she snarled. Then she was pulling him after her as more bolts hissed overhead.
Together they crashed through underbrush. Shapes moved with them — four, five others, men and women with hard eyes and blood-slick blades. They ran until the trees began to thin, until torchlight glowed ahead.
---
They burst into a crude encampment built against an ancient stone arch, half-buried by the Gutter's hungry soil. Fires guttered in iron cages. Rags strung overhead dripped water. Dozens of ragged souls stared as Riven stumbled in, half-carried by the woman.
At the center stood a man with a wolf-pelt draped over one shoulder, face marked by ritual cuts that had healed into sinister smiles. His eyes, dark and sharp, tracked Riven from head to toe.
"This him?" the wolf-man asked, voice like warm tar.
The woman shoved Riven forward. "Found him about to get peeled by carrion. Fought hard, though. Might be worth something."
The man stepped close, studying Riven's face. "Name."
"Riven," he rasped.
"Good. Because you're exactly what we need… to burn this cursed city from its rotten heart out."
---
Riven swayed, breath catching. Those were nearly the same words Aenys had whispered before the guards took him — but this was a stranger. Or was it? In the flicker of torchlight, the woman's features shifted subtly. The scar twisted, the grime fell away.
It was Aenys. Her smile was cold and bright.
"Welcome to your new life, Riven. Or what's left of it."